


For Your Love is Better Than Wine

by blackteaonesugar



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is a Tease (Good Omens), Bible Quotes, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Praise Kink (Good Omens), Ficlet, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Masturbation, Service Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:08:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23688196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackteaonesugar/pseuds/blackteaonesugar
Summary: "Pants off."Aziraphale likes to tell Crowley what to do, and his demon loves obeying him.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 86





	For Your Love is Better Than Wine

**Author's Note:**

> Title & quotes are from The Song of Songs.
> 
> These two are ridiculously in love, and I wanted to show a sweet, intimate moment between them.

It was a quiet night at the cottage. The moon shone through the window, full and bright, and cast long shadows on the floor of the bedroom. Crickets chirped and the sound of waves lapping against the shore combined to create a pleasant white noise, fitting for a relaxing night. 

Aziraphale sat propped up against several downy pillows, reading glasses perched on his nose. His soft blue pajama top, embroidered with the initials ‘AZF’ in gold thread on the left breast pocket, hugged his chest and belly. Propped open on his stomach was a book, something antique and crisp-edged and smelling of dust and history. Next to him on the bedside table a cup of tea waited, steam curling into the air. 

Crowley lay next to him on the bed, sprawling, all long limbs and longer locks. All he wore under the sheet that draped across his hips was a pair of black boxer briefs, having abandoned all other clothing in a pile on the floor before crawling into bed. One hand was on the pillow, idly curling hair around his finger, and the other was above him, holding his phone, black-chipped-polished thumb scrolling through whatever it was he had looked up. Occasionally he would let out a huff of laughter, his chest inflating slightly. His sunglasses were haphazardly thrown on the bedside table, on top of several days’ worth of newspapers, some crumpled bills, and a black wing feather left over from a wing grooming session several nights ago. 

Theirs was a companionable, easy quiet, borne from thousands of years of friendship and the ease into romance that had been on both of their minds for centuries. It had been years since the Apocadidn’t, neither Heaven nor Hell had made contact with them, and the once-unfamiliar feeling of safety they were both initially wary of had become commonplace. 

A soft voice interrupted the silence. With it came a gentle two-fingered tap on Crowley’s hip, startling his mindless scrolling. The angel, expression as serene as ever, not looking up from his book, had said just two words: 

“Pants off.” 

Crowley’s eyes widened and the hand in his hair stilled. He blindly dropped his phone onto the table next to him, looked from his own hips to his angel’s hands on his book, and his eyes fixed on Aziraphale’s face. “What?”

“You heard me.” The angel’s eyes slid over to Crowley - blue meeting amber - although his expression and posture remained the same. A hint of steel crept into his voice. “I won’t tell you again, dear.” A page turned and his eyes went back to scanning the page, seemingly fascinated at whatever was on it. 

Crowley shivered at the rough edge to his angel's voice, and scrambled to do as he had been told. Canting his hips off of the bed, he reached down under the sheet to slide his boxer briefs down. Having done so, he lay back down, his fingers gripping the mattress, and waited for the next instructions. 

It had surprised both of them that Aziraphale liked to take a dominant role in the bedroom, and it had been a long, exhilarating, and toe-curling experiment to find out what each other’s limits were in that regard. Crowley had discovered he liked to be told what to do, and praised for it. His angel was spectacular at spouting off absolutely filthy things, then following through with his salacious wishes (or not), and it made Crowley shiver and writhe and fall apart. Although they faded quickly, Crowley relished in the finger-shaped bruises left on his hips, wrists, and throat after a particularly intense ravaging by his angel. Aziraphale liked to take and take and take, and then leave his demon a whimpering mess, go make a cup of tea, and then calmly come back to wrench an orgasm out of Crowley. The heart-tugging pleasure of seeing his golden-haired angel kneeling above him, the scrape of his pocket watch chain against his skin (yes, Crowley could barely contain himself when his angel made love to him in his trousers and shirtsleeves - seeing his bare forearms and the peek of golden hair under his hastily-unbuttoned collar was nearly as erotic as his angel in the nude). 

Crowley was still, his eyes focused on the tin-tiled ceiling. He knew to wait for his next instruction, not to move, not to ask questions, not to argue. So he waited, and his achingly hard cock under the sheet was so sensitive it set his teeth on edge, and he waited, and his angel sipped his tea, and he waited. It didn’t matter for how long. He would wait.

Finally,  _ finally, _ he heard the book being gently closed, and the rustle of fabric as his angel set it aside, a clink as the teacup was set down, glasses were folded and set aside, and the mattress dipped slightly as Aziraphale moved to settle in on his side next to him, and took his chin in his fingers. “Look at me, darling.”

Crowley’s golden eyes looked at his angel’s face, and he knew not to say anything, but  _ oh,  _ how on earth and all the stars did he deserve this; this all-consuming love, trust, friendship, this quiet certainly that he was exactly where he was meant to be, and all the events of his long life had led to this, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing, better than being at his angel’s mercy. 

Aziraphale smiled at him, and then reached out to tap his hip - his way of re-focusing his demon’s attention, a grounding - and softly commanded, “Touch yourself, my dear.” 

Crowley laughed in relief and reached under the sheet to grasp his cock, the head already damp, the skin blood-hot and flushed, and he groaned, his head thrown back, one hand on his cock and the other digging into the flesh of his thigh. When his eyes started to flutter shut, a sharp “Don’t close your eyes, love.” warned him otherwise, and he looked over at his angel, knowing his face was open and needy and strained with pleasure, and his angel smiled at him and reached over to run the back of his hand gently across the sensitive skin of his neck. Crowley whimpered. Aziraphale’s smile grew sharper.

And this was all new, this command to touch himself while Aziraphale simply watched - this was not something they had discussed before, but the acute pleasure curling through Crowley’s body like smoke, the look on his angel’s face and his teeth caught in his bottom lip, the anticipation of the onrushing orgasm and Aziraphale’s fingers on his throat - this was something that would be explored again, because his angel’s ability to make him unravel with a few words and gestures shocked and exhilarated him every time, and he knew he would do anything he ever asked.

“Don’t finish yet,” said Aziraphale calmly - seconds or minutes later, Crowley didn’t know or care - and the angel knew what the hitching breaths meant, his eyes glancing down at the rapid movements under the sheet, hearing the  _ shhhh _ of skin-on-skin contact. “Make it last for me. Don’t you want me please me?”

Crowley swallowed, hard, and nodded, his hand slowing down, his eyes locked onto his angel’s while a finger circled his nipple and carded through his chest hair. “Yes. Always.”

Aziraphale leaned in to press a kiss into Crowley’s tattoo, and through the fog of heat, pleasure and submission, the demon felt his angel’s lips curve into a smile. As teeth scraped his earlobe, Aziraphale whispered: “By night on my bed, I sought him whom my soul loves.” 

Crowley’s breath hitched at these words, and his hips jerked upward, and he managed to growl out a plea to his angel, something incomprehensible, a strangled, throaty question, and he caught his angel’s eyes, and when he nodded, Crowley came.

When the demon felt he could finally move, he looked over at Aziraphale, his golden-haired head tucked into his shoulder, and the angel grinned up at Crowley, his eyes sparkling. “Your lips are like scarlet thread,” he murmured, and reached up to capture his mouth in a languid kiss. Crowley’s hand reached out to take those fair curls in his palm, and then there was nothing but lips and tongue and teeth and laughter and whispers.

“My beloved is mine, and I am his.” 


End file.
